


Tumblr Prompts and Shorts

by StarsGarters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drabble, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Tumblr Prompts, short fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where my tumblr and kink meme fills come to be archived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anonymous asked:I wish you would write a fic where... Alvey & Brock get drunk, vain, and naked to compare muscles in a manly-manly way and Rollins gets an unexpected threesome out of it.

 

Jack crosses his arms and watches as the two peacocks strut for each other in the ring. Brock’s younger than Alvey, but the older man fights just as dirty and looks like he enjoys it more. There’s a trickle of bloody spit down Brock’s chin and Alvey’s hair is plastered down from sweat. 

“Oh come on old man, just give up. Admit it. You’re a relic.” Brock taunts. To Alvey’s credit, he doesn’t even blink. Instead he lands a quick jab to Brock’s ribs. Jack makes an ‘oooh’ sound. That had to hurt.

“Keep your right up. Don’t drop your guard.” Alvey barks and Brock follows his orders. Jack adjusts the crotch of his compression shorts. It’s like watching a wet dream come to life. 

“Whatever. Like you could take me–” Brock doesn’t get a chance to finish his taunt as Alvey slips beneath his raised guard and suddenly Brock is locked in a submission leg lock. His eyes are scrunched tight and he wriggles, trying to escape. 

“What were you saying  _Peaches_?” Alvey clenches his thighs and grins. Jack whistles in appreciation of the older man’s skills and quite frankly, his thighs. Brock grits his teeth and slowly, reluctantly taps out on the mat. Alvey lets him go and for a moment they both flop on the mat, panting.

Alvey doesn’t gloat, he holds out his hand and says, “Good match, man. You’ve got skills.” Brock takes the offered hand and lets Alvey help him up. They look so good together that Jack can’t help think about what they’d both look like on their hotel room bed. Like matched bookends with him in the middle… 

“Get cleaned up. I’m springing for dinner and drinks.” Jack hears himself say. 

“Well that’s real nice of you, son.” Alvey looks down at Jack from the cage and damned if Jack doesn’t get the once over, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. Jack raises his eyebrows and Alvey licks his lips. “Hope you like Italian sausage.” 

Jack laughs with his whole body as Brock leans up against the cage mesh and spits into his towel. “Yeah, I like that just fine.”  _Cocky bastard._  This is gonna be  _fun_.  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

27\. meeting at a support group au

Every Thursday night at the Presbyterian Church at 7pm for the next 6 months. Anger management classes. It was either class or a massive fine and Brock didn’t have the funds. So he sat in the folding metal chair and looked over the rest of the losers. 

One of them caught his eye and when Brock tried to stare him down, he didn’t budge. Big guy, nasty scar across his chin, actually looked like he had the balls to take on Brock. He smirked and the man answered him with a quirk of his lips. Did that asshole just blow him a kiss? 

He didn’t listen to any of the jerks as they confessed their pitiful sins, he kept staring at the stranger with the scar. He clenched his hands upon his thighs until it was his turn to speak. 

The therapist prompted him and Brock answered in short, clipped sentences. These assholes, especially  _that_  asshole, were on a need to know basis only. “My name is Brock. I was drinking. I got in a bar fight. I won. I have to say I’m sorry now, because the other jerk didn’t know how to fight.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. 

“Brock, we’re going to have to work on your introspection. But that’s good for a first time.” The condescending bitch. The scarred man snorted under his breath. 

“My name is Jack. Fighting is my hobby. I’m good at it. Other people aren’t.” And that’s all he said. He didn’t drop eye contact with Brock once. The therapist snapped her fingers, trying to  get their attention, but failed. Was it the cobra and the mongoose? Who was the potential victim? 

“Alright, let’s take a break. Be back in 5 minutes.” 

Most of the group went outside to smoke but Brock and Jack stayed in. They circled each other, measuring. Brock liked what he saw. Easy balance, awareness of his body in space, utterly in control of the situation. “Were you in the military?” He asked. 

“Just like you, I bet.” Jack responded. “Civilian now?” 

“Contractor.” Brock’s knuckles itched to knock that twisted smile off Jack’s lips. “Going home to the little missus after this?” 

Jack sneered, “Why? Are you looking for a ride?” 

Brock stepped up close, looked up at Jack and tilted his head. “Depends on who’s riding.” His breath was hot and smelled of mint. “That is, if you’re up for it.” 

Jack cracked his gum and blew a bubble in Brock’s face. He snapped it. “I really hope we’re talking about the same thing, otherwise it’s gonna really suck for you when I stick my tongue down your throat.” 

Heat rose up in Brock’s cheeks and he barely heard the therapist yammering, “You two stop that. Back to the circle! There are no confrontations here!” 

Brock broke eye contact first, walked over to the therapist. He leaned down and said in her ear, “We weren’t fighting, that’s the wrong f-word _sweetheart_.”  

And Brock had another 3 weeks added to his sentence. At least he had a ride, of sorts. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

exes meeting again after not speaking for years au 

 

Jack Rollins watches Sokovia fall from the sky in a greasy spoon diner along with a handful of locals. All he can think is,  _INSIGHT would have stopped this madness. We would have stopped this._ He grips his stained coffee mug until his knuckles whiten.  _Not one innocent would have died, if I’d just been a little quicker. A little faster._  And he has to push that thought way deep down because there is too much pain blistering and festering still after all these years. 

He drains his mug and slams it down impotently on the counter. He can’t watch the world fall apart. Not when he can’t do anything to save it. That’s all he wanted, that’s all Br– No. He’s not going to think about him either. There’s groceries to drive home, chores to do. Things to pass the time. Endless time… 

He looks at the scars up and down his arms. They match the ones on his face. A million to one chance, they told him in the hospital after they pulled him from the Potomac. He cut a deal, spilled his guts. He knew nothing that the Widow didn’t leak. Jack looked up at the sky. Does God believe in million to one chances for more than one person? He shakes his head, God wouldn’t let Sokovia fall from the sky.

–

“A mystery man dressed in armor and a mask was spotted leaving the scene of the explosion. Security cameras captured this image. Authorities ask for any information that could assist in identifying the potential bomber.”  Jack stirs his coffee and thinks for the millionth time,  _INSIGHT would have…_  He glances up at the screen and drops the mug. He knows  _those_  eyes. He whispers, “Brock?” and the waitress glares at him as she mops up his mess. 

–

It feels like old times. Tracking down an insurgent. Just like riding a bicycle. He’s slower than he was, but Brock’s sloppier than he was then too. It’s like he wants to be found– oh shit. Jack runs faster. He’s not the only one looking for the masked bomber with the crossbones. That means any minute now, one of the Avengers is going to descend from the sky like a wrathful angel of vengeance. And they can’t find Brock first, no, they can’t.  

The old HYDRA base is dark, his footsteps echo on the metal floor. When he finally reaches the infirmary, he switches off his flashlight and  calls out. “Brock? Is that you?” A single LED flashlight pierces the gloom. 

“Jack?” The voice is harsh, gravely, but still Brock’s. 

There’s a pause, the sound of servo motors whirring and heavy footsteps. Jack holds his breath and Brock turns his flashlight on himself. The mask is terrifying in the gloom, battered and broken. It makes a hissing sound as Brock unlatches it. 

Jack leans against the doorframe, not trusting his unsteady legs. Brock’s face is covered in red gnarled scars, twisted and grotesque, but Jack can’t stop looking at those red-rimmed hazel eyes. Brock looks down at the floor in shame and Jack lurches towards him. 

He holds Brock close, the armor jabs his skin and Brock is shaking from the drugs, from the pain. Jack buries his face in Brock’s hair and clings to him. Jack feels like throwing up, laughing and crying at the same time. He settles for crying out, “Why didn’t you tell me?! I thought you  _died_!”

There’s an explosion. The  _good guys_  have arrived. 

Brock kisses him and Jack closes his eyes, feels the unbearable weight of his grief and guilt lift from his shoulders. Everything will be okay, everything will be good again. He has Brock now. They’ll never be separated again. He’s found him. 

Brock croaks out, “Big Guy.  _I did die_.” He punches Jack in the gut, then a right cross to the jaw. Jack crumples to the ground. 

“I can’t ever go back to what was before. I’m not– the same.  _Live_   _for_   _me_.” He grabs his mask and Jack watches through darkening eyes as Brock loads his gun, takes one last look back at Jack and charges into the darkness. “Come and get me, you motherfuckers–!” 

Jack lays on the ground, curled in a ball, sobbing until the sound of his breathing is the only thing in the darkness. 

_INSIGHT would have stopped this…_

* * *

It might have been a few hours, a day, a week, Jack isn’t sure, but when he crawls out of the semi collapsed HYDRA base, he’s burning with new purpose.  

5 foot 10 inches of bad attitude, fantastic hair and cheap body spray. Funny. He missed that smell on his pillows so much that he bought a can at the drugstore and hosed down a pillowcase. It wasn’t the same, it just made his eyes water. 

Jack rubs his aching jaw, his lip is split all the way to his nose but he only remembers the taste of that bittersweet kiss. Stupid stubborn selfish bastard. Nobody cuts and runs on Jack Rollins. Especially someone who was great with executing a mission but utter shit at the logistics. Brock could pull the trigger, but hell if he could remember to bring the damn bullets… He couldn’t do  _whatever_  he was doing without support, without someone there to watch his back.

Let’s face it  _sweetheart_ , he’s got a reason to live now, a reason to thrive. 

There’s no mention of Brock’s capture on the news. They’d gloat about that. Put him on display before locking him away as a traitor. They were patriots, the last remains of STRIKE, the last true patriots. They’d never have let the world go to shit. 

Jack sets out feelers with all of the tattered remnants of his former network of informants. Not a nibble for weeks, but Jack is patient. He’d been waiting for a dead man to come back to life, after all. And then, a text.

STOP LOOKING 4 ME.

NO. IM GOING TO FIND U. He sent back.

THATS AN ORDER SOLDIER

I stopped being a soldier the day the Triskelion fell, Jack thinks. I stopped being a whole person that day.  IM A CIVVIE NOW. U CANT ORDER ME 2 DO SHIT.

PLEASE.

Jack blinks, momentarily taken aback, but Brock’s not the only stubborn asshole in their relationship. That’s what it was, no matter how much he’s denied it, called it a bromance, swore that they were just good friends. 

Good friends could suck each other off in the locker room, sure. Good friends could fuck for shits and giggles. Good friends could stay the night after getting wasted. But good friends didn’t whisper dreams for the future under the cover of darkness in each other’s ears. Good friends didn’t say _I love you_ , just that one time, right before INSIGHT launched. 

Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so badly if they’d just been good friends, but Jack regrets  _nothing_. Well, maybe he should have shot Rogers in the back of the head when he had the chance. Hindsight is 20/20.

I WANT 2 HELP. IVE GOT UR BACK. DONT THROW US AWAY. I LOVE U.

And silence. 

—

Jack goes through the motions of everyday life for the next few weeks. Laundry, cooking, minor chores. It’s all he can do, this pantomime of normalcy. If he gives up, he’ll stop moving forward. Always moving forward, no regrets. Order comes from pain. Funny, he’d thought that was utter  _bullshit_ , but now–- He needs coffee. 

Jack stands in front of of the diner, takes a breath and lifts his foot.  A car honks. Jack looks over and the door opens. A man in a hoodie, a baseball cap. His hands are riddled with red scars. 

“Get in loser.” Brock growls. Jack doesn’t hesitate for a moment, he walks over and throws away the life he’s cobbled together after INSIGHT. It was a _shitty_  life. 

The silence is awkward, but Jack can’t help needling Brock, just like the old days. “Hey Brock?” 

“Yeah?” Every word sounds like it hurts. 

“Sorry about your face.” Brock laughs until he coughs. 

 “You fucker.” He reaches over and squeezes Jack’s thigh. “We match now.” 

“Nah, now I’m the pretty one.” He leans over and kisses the scar on Brock’s cheekbone. “I’m never the pretty one. Look at us, Beauty and the Beast.” He touches the gnarled skin gently, not worried about hurting Brock, but afraid that he might vanish. He’s hallucinated fallen comrades before, usually they chew him out for being a pansy in his dark moments. 

Brock jerks away, flinches from the caresses. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” 

He’s so close to tears and he doesn’t want to embarrass or frighten Brock away. Jack chews on his lip and punches Brock in the arm. “You can’t order me around now  _sweetheart_. I make my own choices. And I chose  _you_  a long time ago.”

Brock laughs and shifts into drive. “You’ve got terrible taste.”

Jack nods, that’s not a lie. But for the first time in years, he feels great. And this time, all his choices, all his loyalties are his own. Jack leans back the seat and settles in. “I hope you’ve got coffee where ever you’re holed up. You know how I get without my coffee.” 

“Yeah, yeah. _I’ve never forgotten_ …” 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nanny/ Single Parent AU

nanny/single parent au

Jack tried to not feel sorry for his families. They had enough money to hire him and his special skill set, enough money to live well and never have to think about what they might have to scrounge together at the last minute. But the Rumlow family? They were seriously  _fucked up._

Maria, the ex-wife, was barely in the picture, she was usually in Cannes or the French Rivera, wining and dining men old enough to be her grandfather. It was a certain skill set and Jack could respect that. 

The kids. Oh these kids. Murphy was on the awkward cusp of awkward, all acne and growth spurts. Cynthia was too young to know as much as she did and she had no problem showing that off. He could handle kids, they needed discipline and structure. 

It was the father that really threw him for a loop. Dangerously good looking with too much hair and a smile that showed too white teeth. He’d read the paper in the morning with his coffee, eat the breakfast Jack cooked and pretend that he wasn’t watching Jack’s knife skills out of the corner of his eye. Then he would leave for a few days on a business trip, leaving Jack to ferry Murphy to cello lessons and Cynthia to gymnastics practice. 

Mr. Rumlow would return with exotic gifts and a few unexplained bruises that makeup didn’t quite cover up. Jack took the cash the man gave him and kept his mouth shut. Drugs. Guns. Human trafficking. It had to be one of those. So Jack watched and waited for the hammer to drop, for the bad guys to come over and make a housecall. Jack might not be the warmest individual in the world, but no one would hurt these kids on his watch. 

Mr. Rumlow, well, he was on his own. 

–

3 am and the kitchen windows shattered around Jack. He took cover behind the granite counter. The kids were at their grandmothers. Jack sighed and grabbed two of his kitchen knives. The balance was all wrong, but he’d worked with less. 

 _Come on you bastards, let me see the whites of your eyes_. The chefs knife flew straight and true, pinned a man in black to the wall through his Adam’s apple. Jack ducked into the hall, padded in his bare feet behind another intruder and carved that unlucky soul a new smile under his chin. 

“Where’s Rumlow?” Jack heard the sound of a round being chambered. “Who the fuck are  _you_?” The operative behind him asked and pressed the barrel of his rifle into Jack’s back. 

“He’s the  _nanny_.” The unmistakable sound of a silencer at close range, the assailant crumpled to the ground. Jack turned around. Mr. Rumlow was covered in blood that was not his own. He kicked the rifle away from the body.  “And I think he’s earned a  _bonus_.”  

“I think what I’ve earned are some  _answers.”_ Jack said and he knelt down to search and strip the bodies. “Guns? Drugs? People? What the fuck are you selling?” 

Mr. Rumlow smiled, but tightly so that his teeth didn’t show. “Secrets.” 

Oh fuck. Jack rolled his eyes. “You’re a goddamn spy.” 

“I’m too pretty to be an honest man.” 

“And your ex-wife?” 

“Former KGB.” 

“Fuck me.” Jack muttered under his breath. 

Mr. Rumlow laughed, “Maybe later, you’re just my type, you know. But first we’ve got some clean up before Cynthia has that sleepover, don’t you think?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Single parent/Teacher AU   
> Hydra Husbands

teacher/single parent au

Parent teacher conferences were a special type of hell. Sharon was supposed to have Alex this week, but she begged out for a business conference. So while his ex was whooping it up in Las Vegas, Jack was sitting in a very tiny chair listening to a woman explain to him about Alex’s core curriculum. “He’s very, very bright Mr. Rollins. We’re looking to place him in the accelerated courses, but right now we’re doing one on one tutoring to nurture his full potential.” Yep, that was his kid. Scary smart. Jack didn’t consider himself to be a dummy and Sharon wasn’t at the bottom of her class either, but Alex… Alex was in a class by himself, literally. 

“So, he’s not in class with the other kids?” 

“Well,” she paused, “He does have Physical Education…” She trailed off as if it was a subject she wasn’t quite willing to broach. “You should talk to Mr. Rumlow about that.” The bell rang, signaling that the parents needed to move to the next station. “It’s truly an honor to educate your child Mr. Rollins,” Jack nodded, uncomfortably. 

–

“So you’re Alex’s dad. Huh.” The Physical Education teacher looked Jack up and down. “Wasn’t expecting a bruiser.” Mr. Rumlow bounced a basketball, passing it from hand to hand. “Didn’t you used to go here?” 

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.” 

“I thought so. Your name is all over this gym.” Mr. Rumlow pointed at the painted wall, Jack’s name was still there in several places. “The principal wanted to paint over the records. Something about giving the kids a fresh start.” He took an easy three-point shot, jogged over, retrieved the ball and passed it to Jack. Jack snagged the ball out of the air and took a shot. Nothing but net. “I told him, politely, to go screw himself. These kids earned the right to have their names up there. There’s no such thing as a clean slate, a fresh start.” 

“I take it you don’t give participation ribbons then.” It felt good to hold a ball again, the easy grin of the PE teacher grew wider with each shot. 

“Hell no. And you better believe I’m keeping score right now, Mr. All-American.” Mr. Rumlow darted in close and stole the ball out from underneath Jack’s nose. “I’m always keeping score.” 

Oh, it’s on. Jack thought. He might not be able to dunk anymore, but damned if he couldn’t keep up with a PE teacher in short shorts and a too tight t-shirt. “Then I’m up by six.” whoosh. “Make that by nine. Play to twenty?” 

Mr. Rumlow played smart, but dirty. There was an elbow or two in the mix and Jack felt his lips curl back in a snarl of competition. The buzzer rang three times, but no other parents showed up. Jack drove to the basket, practically dragging Mr. Rumlow along with him and laidup a sweet two points. He offered his hand to the teacher who was sprawled out on the hardwood. 

“Nice game.” Mr. Rumlow took his hand and Jack hauled him up. For a moment, the teacher was pressed up against Jack and instead of jerking back or apologizing, Mr. Rumlow licked his lips and looked at Jack with something darker, something hungry. Then he pushed away, grabbed the ball and said, “I’m still failing your kid. Sorry man.” He took another shot and missed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neighbors AU  
> Hydra Husbands

Hydra husbands au. No 16?

 

It started innocently enough. Anyone could have parked in front of his driveway. And that was a moving van. No one thought clearly during a move and the house next door had been vacant far too long. it needed someone to take care of it, make the old Victorian glow again. Jack parked on the curb and walked his groceries in. Maybe he’d meet the new neighbors soon. 

Contractors started at 8am regardless of whether or not Jack had a hangover from that late night business dinner. It wasn’t personal. Jack stared at the ceiling and willed his brain to stop throbbing. But. It. Was. Sunday. He put a pillow over his face and wished for a merciful death. 

His hedges. The next door neighbor had their gardner trim his hedges. He was growing them out for a topiary treatment and now the poor little bushes were stunted and woefully spherical. Jack looked for a car in the driveway. Nothing. The new neighbor kept weird hours. Soon they would have words. 

Jack sat on his porch, the swing slowly creaking as he nursed his beer and contemplated what he’d tell that inconsiderate fuck-face of a neighbor. He looked at his poor hedges, at the garden that was overwatered from the sprinkler that never moved, at his roses. Well maybe he couldn’t blame the roses on the new neighbor, but he wanted to. 

A motorcycle. Of course that jerk drove a crotch rocket. Jack stepped off his porch, “Hey! Hey you! MY BUSHES!” It wasn’t the most coherent of confrontations, but it also wasn’t Jack’s first beer. 

The neighbor beckoned him over with a crooked finger and Jack rethought his position on just having  _words_  with this asshole. He dismounted the flashy bike, clad in riding leathers and heavy boots, practical if they weren’t so  _tight._  

“Now look here, you can’t just cut and trim everything you want to! The property line is right there and you need to respect my BUSHES.” Jack gestured wildly. 

The neighbor took off his full face masked helmet and time slowed to a crawl for Jack. The asshole was gorgeous. He even flicked his hair back like a model in a pomade commercial. He tucked his helmet under his arm and said in a low friendly tone, “About that. I’m sorry. I’m new to this whole home ownership thing. I’m Brock.” He held out his hand and Jack reflexively took it. Firm grip with warm leather. Jack momentarily forgot how incensed he was, but then Brock said, “But they do look a lot better now, don’t they?” 

He heard the words come out of his mouth, “I’m Jack. AND STAY AWAY FROM MY BUSHES!” 

“Okay dude. Anyway you’d have to buy me dinner first.” Brock  _winked_  at him, fucking winked and walked away, leaving Jack in the driveway, his mouth open and closed like a trout. Oh this was not going to end well, but Jack set his jaw and contemplated devious plans. His attempt to stalk off imposingly was foiled by tripping over the garden hose that flooded his roses. 

_MOTHERFUCKER._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up with Amnesia AU

HYDRA Husbands, waking up with amnesia AU

 

The last thing he remembered was the concussion grenade going off right next to his head. There was a flash of blinding light and then deep cool _nothing_. 

The ground was moving beneath him, beneath his face in fact. He was slung over someone’s shoulder and they were moving as fast as they could. His head ached and the jostling made his ribs scream. His ride was muttering, mumbling under his breath as he ran. “God fucking damnit. Jesus Christ. You weren’t supposed to be in there, you stupid fucker. I swear to god, I’m gonna beat the stupid out of you when we get home. And you have to do the dishes for month. And the lawns. Oh and the gutters, get your short ass up on a ladder and clean those out too.”  

Huh. He had no idea who this person carrying him was, but he was apparently in for a world of hurt and household chores. He couldn’t make his body respond, so he limply went along with the ride, listening to the rant. “Don’t you dare die on me. We’ve got too much to do, you selfish prick. You’re not going to leave me alone to babysit fucking Rogers, you’re not going to do that to me.”  

A fair distance away, in some cover, he landed on the ground more gently than he’d expected from the tirade of profanity. Shaking hands felt for his pulse and his ride heaved a huge shuddery sigh of relief. Then the man was on his belly, scanning the horizon for threats, shielding him with his huge body.  “I’m going to have a fucking heart attack if you don’t wake up Brock.” 

_Brock_? Was that his name? Kind of a stupid name. Oh well.  A bad guy wouldn’t be threatening him with lawnmowing and gutters. Brock cracked an eyelid and cautiously snuck a glance.  _Not bad_ , his brain and his dick agreed.  _Not bad at all._  He risked a wriggle of his fingers. 

“Oh my god! Ohmigod!” His rescuer touched his face as if it were made of glass and then kissed him all over from his forehead to his chin, quickly. “You scared the hell out of me. What’s your condition?” 

“Broken ribs. My ears won’t stop ringing.” His voice sounded raw and strange, “And one small problem.” 

“Only one? We’re pinned down here. The evac isn’t here and I think Pierce might pull off our toenails for losing track of Rogers out there. So just  _one small fucking problem?_  I’m so happy to hear that. I really am. Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker…” He returned to his watch, “One teeny tiny problem he says!” 

“I have no idea where I am, who I am or who _you_  are, dude.” 

“Me Jack. You Brock. Funny.” Jack’s lips quirked in annoyance. “Just because you died on me, doesn’t mean you get to pull shit like that.” 

“I  _died?”_

_“_ For about a minute. Why you think your ribs hurt like that? Brought you back, babe.” 

“Babe? Are we? Are we  _together_?” 

“God I fucking hope so or it’s going to be a bitch explaining these matching tattoos to my mother. Quit fucking with me Brock, it’s not funny.” 

“You aren’t listening to me. I’ve got that fucking amnesia shit! I can’t remember anything past that grenade going off! So just answer my questions!” 

Jack set his jaw. “Amnesia.” He sighed again, reached over and tousled Brock’s hair,  “You amaze me Brock. In any given situation, you always find a way to be the biggest pain in my ass. It’s like your gift. Hostiles on my 10.”  

Brock frowned and winced as he shifted position. “Let’s see if I remember how to shoot someone in the face.” He aimed his sidearm at the incoming guerillas. 

“Just like riding a bicycle…” Jack smiled. “If we survive this, you’re also washing all the windows.” 

“I might not remember shit, but I know that I’m not your fucking maid.” 

“The French Maid outfit is only for special occasions.” Jack took out three hostiles with head shots. “You look so pretty in that apron.” He reloaded, “If you can’t remember, we’ll just have to play dress up again. Refresh that sweet little memory.” 

“Shut up!” Brock snarled and between the two of them, the threat wasn’t a threat any more. 

Jack leaned up against the rock cover and radioed for evac again. Brock felt sleepy and said in a slurred voice, “Matching tattoos? What the fuck? I don’t even  _like_ you…” And then there was the cool comfort of familiar darkness. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #22 two miserable people meeting at a wedding au  
> Brock Rumlow/Steve Rogers

#22 two miserable people meeting at a wedding au

_A dry wedding._

Who on God’s green earth would have a  _dry wedding?_ Brock’s sister, that’s who. 

Not only was it dry, but there was a sermon. And Brock wasn’t allowed to bring a date. 

So he sat at the groomsman’s table and built an elaborate fortress of salt shakers, tea light candles and mason jars decorated with glitter paint. If he balanced  _one more_  shaker, then he could hide behind it and pretend to die. Because he’d just had to listen to someone preach about the sanctity of marriage and how it was between a man and a woman and there was his gay ass just sitting there. Taking it. Because he loved his sister. 

Suddenly, something breached his fortress. A tulle-covered birdseed bundle. Brock groaned and tried to keep the rest of the structure from collapsing. He peered over the wreckage and looked into brilliant blue eyes, hiding behind a similar barricade. Another birdseed bomb.  

Brock picked up a bundle and lobbed it back. He hit a critical weakness and the wedding debris collapsed under its own weight. The blonde man with the amazing blue eyes mimed his own death, mutely slumped onto the table, then looked up. The candlelight glimmered in those eyes and Brock swallowed hard. The stranger lifted his tuxedo jacket lapel and pointed at a shiny silver flask. And Brock was smitten. 

Brock walked over to the other man’s table and sat down. “So, I know you’re not related to me, you don’t seem nearly  _mouth-breather_  enough. So did you spring up on the groom’s side?” 

“Nope. I’m the venue manager, Steve. I usually watch over things, make sure no one gets pissed and,” he smiled, “Pisses in the fountain. But I don’t think that’s going to be a problem here…” The DJ started playing,  _You Light Up My Life_  and Brock cringed. “I’ve been at livelier wakes. Do you wanna get out of here? I don’t think this bunch needs my supervision.”

Brock looked confused, why would this gorgeous man pick him up here of all places? 

Steve winked. “I watched you during that fucked up sermon and you looked like you wanted to die. So, instead of dying might I suggest a little light refreshment and a walk under the stars with a stranger? After all, that’s what weddings are for.” Steve handed him the flask and Brock took a swig. It burned smoothly all the way down. 

“Why not? Just get me back in time to do the Chicken Dance.” Brock took Steve’s offered arm and smirked at the look of disgust and horror on his Aunt’s face. He was walking out with the best looking man in the whole venue and he was going to get  _righteously_  fucked up. He felt Steve’s biceps strain under his tux jacket. Or maybe just get righteously  _fucked_. 

That would do just fine, too. 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fake relationship au Hydra Husbands

fake relationship au

“Why are we doing this again?” Rollins hissed through his teeth as Rumlow grabbed a handful of his ass on the dance floor. 

“The bennies, you dumbass. We get the same benefits as married servicemen without you know, actually hooking up with a chick who’ll just cheat on us while we’re deployed.” Rumlow said in his ear, then laughed. “We’re fucking the system over.” 

“Without any of the actual fucking. This is a stupid plan Brock.” 

“Don’t worry  _darling_ , we’ll get a divorce after we get done with our tour. In the meantime, you get my pension if I buy it and if you eat dirt then you can rest assured that you won’t have to have a funeral with any of your fucking waste of skin family hovering around your casket moaning.” Brock danced a little too close for Rollins’ comfort. 

“You, you don’t have to do that.” Rollins groaned as Rumlow ground up against him, provoking catcalls from the rest of the very drunk team. 

“This is our fucking wedding reception and right now I’m pretending that you’re a very large Swedish woman with incredible tits. Now kiss me like you mean it  _Helga.”_  Rollins leaned down and kissed his new husband with his eyes tightly shut. It helped that Rumlow had shaved his perma-stubble off. It was almost like kissing a woman. Then Rumlow snuck in his fucking  _tongue_  and gave Rollins a tonsil inspection. Rollins tried to pull back, but Rumlow wrapped his hand around the back of Rollins’ neck and clung to him like a spider monkey. 

The team whooted and hollered. Mercer yelled, “Get a room you two!” and threw birdseed at them. They’d be picking birdseed out of their ears for days. 

Rumlow delatched and grinned up at red-faced Rollins. “I’m going to make a man out of you yet, sweetheart.”  Rollins swallowed hard and hoped no one noticed his erection. 

This was a  _very_ ,  _very_  stupid plan.  

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cop/person getting a speeding ticket au - Pierce/Rumlow

38\. cop/person getting a speeding ticket au - Pierce/Rumlow

 

“Oh hell.” Alexander Pierce swore as he saw the flashing red and blue lights in his rear view mirror. He didn’t have time for this. He pulled over and got his license and registration out. He rolled down his window and waited. 

The motorcycle cop tapped his pen against the ticket pad and said, “You were going 40 in a school zone. License and registration.” Pierce sighed and handed over the documents. “What’s the hurry, buddy?” 

“Officer?” Pierce squinted at the cop’s name tag. “Rumlow. I was on my way to diffuse a very tense situation with Bolivia.” 

“No shit.” Rumlow was unimpressed. He scribbled out the ticket. “What are you?” 

“Secretary of Defense of the United States of America, actually.” Pierce propped his chin on his hand. That usually worked. Officer Rumlow snapped his chewing gum, ripped off the ticket from his pad and tucked it in Pierce’s suit breast pocket. 

“I’ll give you an escort to the Pentagon, if you like.” 

“But I’ve still got to pay the ticket, right?” Pierce tried his most winsome smile. 

“Well, that way we get to see each other again. In court.” Officer Rumlow tilted down his sunglasses, winked and snapped his gum again. Then he walked off to his motorcycle with Pierce watching his ass sway the whole way back. 

The cop flipped on his lights and motioned for Pierce to follow him. Pierce rolled up his window and muttered, “The papers will have a field day with this.” But with an ass like that, well, Pierce was willing to take a chance. Suddenly Bolivia seemed a whole lot less interesting. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kink meme fill. 
> 
> PROMPT: This kind of in my head for a while, when I went to Walmart (before Christmas), when I saw Old Spice gift packs beside Axe gift packs, I was thinking...what if Rumlow always got his Axe by gift packs/or other people always give him tons of gift packs as Christmas gift, and that one year for whatever reasons, he got Old Spice(s) instead, so what will a smell sensitive Winter Solider react?

"What's wrong?" Rollins asked Rumlow. 

Rumlow mashed his face with his hand and shrugged in exasperation. "I don't fucking know." He pointed at the Winter Soldier crammed into the back of a broom closet. "He won't come out. He says that I'm an impostor. I've got no clue." 

Rollins quirked an eyebrow. "Winter? That's Brock. I guarantee that's the genuine ugly article." 

"Fuck you Rollins." Rumlow protested without heat. 

"What's wrong?" Rollins knelt down to the Asset's level. "Why aren't you coming out?" 

He shook his head and whispered, "Smells wrong. That's not the Commander." 

Rollins sat back on his heels. "Brock? Did you, I dunno, change the brand of shit that you douse yourself with every morning?" 

"I just use what people give me. I think it was Old Spice this morning, I dunno. I don't pay attention." It took a moment and Rollins smirked when the idea finally clicked in Rumlow's thick head. "Oh fuck me. Really?" 

"Super nose to go with all the rest of the super senses. You better go shower or we're never getting anything done." Rollins sniffed, "I never thought I'd say this, but I miss the AXE."   
Rumlow flipped him off and stomped off to the locker room. "You can come out now." 

The Asset extricated himself from the closet and looked about suspiciously. Rollins asked out of pure curiosity, "What do I smell like?" 

Blue eyes looked up at him. "You smell like cigarettes, gun oil and cancer." Rollins blinked. No one knew about his diagnosis. Hell, he'd only found out last Tuesday. Brock certainly didn't know. Super senses indeed... 

"So you can smell that on me, can you?" The Asset nodded. "That's classified information, it doesn't leave this room. Got that Soldier?" Again, a nod. "Let's get you geared up." At least cancer didn't smell like frat boy.

 


End file.
